Wonderland
by Idamonae
Summary: [Shawshank Redemption]Sometimes it’s okay to dream. Andy likes to dream dirty dreams. They’re somehow cleaner than the soiled stage of reality. Warnings: Slash, Rape.


Title: Wonderland

Genre: Drama/Angst

Rating: R

Summary: Sometimes it's okay to dream. Andy likes to dream dirty dreams. They're somehow cleaner than the soiled stage of reality. Warnings: Slash, Rape.

_Disclaimer: I don't own a god damned thing. The lines in italics are stolen directly from the screenplay, as written by Frank Darabont. Everything else belongs to Stephen King I suppose, with a bit of leeway thrown in for all the folks at Castle Rock and Columbia that contributed to the film adaptation. Unlike Red, I ain't making no 20 percent, and this is for entertainment purposes only. _

_xxxx_

Rita's smiling down at me with that coy expression…and I think that makes it ok. She has full lips, painted with ruby cosmetics, and I can almost hear her musical laughter, here in this room, while I'm lying on my back staring into the darkness where I can just make out her smile.

But it's not her hands that are touching me, and its not mine either and that's what makes it so wrong. Or is it that which makes it so right? It is wrong. It's wrong that I'm lying here on my back, with my legs spread in a fashion I've never tried before, and I'm arching my back, biting my shirt sleeves trying not to keen. I don't want anyone to know about this.

Ever.

Rita has full lips, but so does Red. Red's lips aren't soft, and they don't taste like bitter cosmetics. His lips would be dry, wouldn't they? I've never noticed before, but I'll be sure to notice when I see him tomorrow, if I'm able to look at his face at all. He's kissing me though. His lips are on my throat, suckling gently, not biting like…

Like _them_.

Red doesn't touch me the way they do. He's hesitant. He asks first, and when I nod my head, only then does he touch me. His carpenter's hands are touching me_ there _now, and God does it feel good. All the time, she's watching. Watching me pump up into Red's hand and wishing it were hers. Red is holding me down, restraining me against the squeaky cot, holding me close to his body. I can hear him. He sounds so far away.

"_Take is easy Andy. Take is easy." _

Why does he sound so far away? He's right here. He's here, making love to me in the dark, steadying me like he always does. I can feel white hot intensity in my veins, dripping like liquid fire. My skin is hot and clammy, and Red's hands feel cool on my body as he soothes me. Rita's still watching. I never knew she could be such a voyeur. She likes this, she likes to watch Red touch me, and that's what makes it ok. As long as she watches, and no one else, it's ok for this to feel so good. It's ok to want this so badly.

I'm coming now. I can feel the rush of my passion on my fingertips, and suddenly the air in my cell doesn't feel so warm. It's cold instead: cold and tight. A terrible weight has settled over me where Red used to be, this one holding me down more firmly, so I can't escape. Guilt seeps through me, as I look down at the evidence of my lust on my hand, and I feel my face burn with shame. I felt desire for my best friend, my only friend. And I took of my desire. The weight builds, making it hard to breath, and I can feel the pressure behind my eyes, but I can't cry. I haven't been able to cry since I was small.

There is a shadow looming over me, and I can smell whiskey-tainted breath on my cheek, and suddenly Captain Byron Hadley is gripping my wrists so hard he's leaving marks with his perfectly trimmed nails, bruising me. Maybe my hands will snap off. Hadley is worse even than the sisters when he comes to me. Because he knows I don't fight when he comes. He comes at night, when it's quiet. When he knows I have to be quiet. The sisters don't come after me anymore. They haven't since that day in the projector room. I know what happened while I healed up in the infirmary. I also know I have to pay for those services now. Hadley got rid of Boggs, but it didn't come for free. I tell the fella's that the guards protect me because I'm their ticket to financial freedom. They have to keep their pet happy. But the fella's aren't allowed to now that I take it like a woman when Hadley comes to me, mostly on Monday nights. His wife is playing cribbage on Monday nights, and he goes home to leftovers, kept warm on the stove, cold beer, and an even colder bed. So he comes to my bed first, turns me over onto my stomach so he can't see my face, and I'm sure he tells himself that I'm a nice, pretty little thing, and not the 6'5" giant with the gentle walk and bruised face that he must know I am somewhere in that head of his. He takes me with my trousers around my ankles, and I have to bite the pillow to keep from screaming, though the muffled sounds still come through, and I can almost see Red's face in the yard tomorrow, wondering what nightmares I suffered that I couldn't keep my mouth shut.

When Hadley fucks me, his thrusts are hard and fast, but never shallow. It makes me glad he only ever comes on Monday's, and how sometimes, he doesn't come at all. When I have trouble sitting tomorrow, I'll make some lame comment and phantom pains, and everyone will laugh, except Red, who'll give me a cursory glance, and then let it be.

I always come though. Even with the feel of his sour breath on my neck, and his slippery sweat pooling on my back, I can somehow come. When I can feel that prick's cock inside me, I usually think about the whispered talk in my college dorm room, talk that continued on the lines in France where there wasn't female company around for miles. The boys I knew back then would whisper about the pleasures that can be had with another man's dick up your ass, and how even the most red-blooded man, should he be willing to put aside his bigotry for a few hours, can get to feeling pretty damn good without need of female company. Those boys would then spend a week bedding every woman who came within ten feet of them to make up for their discretions. I only have Rita. As long as Rita watches, it's okay for my muscles to turn to jelly every time Hadley thrusts _there._

It's ok to wish it were Red who'd snuck up into my one bunk Hiltonand held me gently, with rough hands guiding over my bruised skin. To pretend that it's Red that's groaning over me. Because if I listen hard enough, I can hear Red calling to me softly "_take it easy, Andy_," and then it's not pretend at all.


End file.
